


Rumours

by cranks_in_furnace



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Coming Out, Daddy Holmes- Mentioned, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Kid!Lock, Kidlock, M/M, Mummy Holmes- Mentioned, Redbeard - Freeform, Sherlock Holmes and Sexuality, Sherlock and Mycroft are bros, Slurs, Teenlock, Young Sherlock, mild homophobia, teen!lock, uni!lestrade, uni!mycroft - Freeform, unimycroft, wow so many tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-28
Updated: 2014-05-28
Packaged: 2018-01-26 20:21:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1701275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cranks_in_furnace/pseuds/cranks_in_furnace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock was ten, and in year six of primary school, the rumours started.<br/>In year seven, his first year of high school, they still hadn't stopped.<br/>When Sherlock, now 15, was in year ten, he knew that they were right.</p>
<p>Or how Sherlock came out to Mycroft.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rumours

When Sherlock was ten, and in year six of primary school, the rumours started.

He didn't understand them at the time. He couldn't understand why anyone would concern themselves with such trivial things such as rumours. But what he did understand about them was that the boys and girls thought they were... _funny_.

Sherlock didn't know how they could, there was -or is, for that matter- nothing humorous in the slightest about what the children were saying. It wasn't just that they saw them as a joke, but that they weren't only about him- he could have bared it if they were.

No, they were making jokes up about Mycroft, too. And Sherlock couldn't have that.

In year seven, his first year of high school, they still hadn't stopped.

Every day when his big brother would come to pick him up from school after collage, there would be a group of boys and girls waiting to laugh and snigger at him and Sherlock. He could tell that Mycroft knew what they were laughing about, and he also knew that the reason he always hurried Sherlock away and into the car was because he didn't want Sherlock to hear them.

But Sherlock always heard them.

Mycroft was always outside of the school entrance at 3:25 every day, five minutes before school ended, waiting with the car behind him, and his friend Gregory by his side. Mycroft said that he had cleared both of their timetables so that neither of them ever had a lesson last period, so that they were always able to collect Sherlock from school.

As he hurried away from the school building, backpack resting on shoulders, newly acquired chemistry textbook in hand, Sherlock tried -as he did each and every day- to get away from them as quickly as he could. It never worked, though. He always heard what they were saying.

What they were saying about him, about Mycroft's friend Gregory. About Mycroft.

_“Sherly's brother's a faggot” “Look at that posh ponce, just look at him. With his boyfriend, it's disgusting” “Sherly, Sherly who likes it up the arse”_

Everywhere he went, each lesson, each classroom, he heard some variant of whatever _brilliant_ idea they had latched onto that day. Although it was always along the same lines. They were always calling Sherlock or his brother who he loved so much a _faggot_ , or a _ponce_ , or laughing so much at how they _like it up the arse_.

When Sherlock, now 15, was in year ten, he knew that they were right.

He had knows for years, even before the rumours started, but he only realised that he knew after moving up to high school.

He also knew that he was still the freak, still different and he most certainly knew that he was still so alone. He had Mycroft, but he was at University, which meant Sherlock had no one to protect him from the bullies.

 ---

One day, when Mycroft was at home from Uni, he came to pick Sherlock up from school, just like he used to.

So when Sherlock left the school, walked past the seven boys and girls who laughed and sniggered, and went to turn the corner to go home, he instead saw the sleek black car waiting at the curb.

And in front of the car, he saw his brother, holding his dear umbrella infront of himself like a cane, and his friend Gregory by his side, just like he used to see each and every day.

He didn't think twice before he raced to them, and threw his arms around the elder Holmes boy, who he missed so much.

In that one small moment, the tiniest slice of time, Sherlock didn't care what the other boys and girls might say for the first time since he was ten. Mycroft must have though. He must have known that they were still spreading the rumours about his brother, and about himself and Gregory.

So he urged Sherlock to clamber into the car and not even a minute later they were leaving the school and all of it's hurt behind, at least for another day.

 ---

That night, when Mummy and Daddy were out at a new restaurant in London, Sherlock was left alone with Mycroft and Gregory. Not that he minded in the least, he missed his brother terribly, and he never really got to know Gregory very well, or understood why he was always with his brother. Or why they looked at each other in such a loving way and sat so close together.

Gregory spent the best part of two hours telling Sherlock about his work as a policeman at Scotland Yard and going over some old cold-cases with him. All of which the youngest Holmes solved for the Sargent in under fifteen minutes.

That was what made Sherlock so passionate about solving crimes, and what would later lead to Mycroft teaching him about deducing and how to see things not visible to just the eye, but the brain too.

At the request of Mycroft, Mummy and Daddy were spending a week in Sussex at the family's holiday home, which had once belonged to Sherlock's grandmother and her husband. Which meant that it would only be Sherlock, Mycroft and Gregory in the house for the rest of the week, which Sherlock seemingly magically had off of school (although he was sure that it was of his brothers doing).

That short week would turn out to be the one his life changed, for both the better and the worse. Though he would only experience the first in those seven short days.

 ---

The second night saw Sherlock faced with a choice: he knew that Mycroft knew about the comments and rumours, but he also knew that Mycroft had no idea that they were true, at least the ones about him were, anyway.

_So_ , Sherlock thought, _what do I do? Do I tell him and hope that he doesn't think of me as some sort of freak, like the rest of them do? Or do I keep it hidden and keep pretending and try my hardest not to let it get to me anymore?_

For hours upon hours he flipped the two options over in his head, lying on his front on the rug before the fireplace with his experiment notes, but not seeing the words or letters that made up the words as he flicked through the pages.

His unseeing eyes were bought back into sharp focus when he heard the door to the living room opening and closing, the rush of cool air that suddenly filled the room pulling his fully out of his stupor.

Knowing that it was Mycroft, not Gregory, Sherlock continued to flick through his notebook, now seeing the notes and remembering the spontaneous experiments he set up around the house, which got him into trouble with his parents countless times.

“Sherlock” came his brothers voice, full of authority but yet so calm and overflowing with the love he had for the boy lying infront of the fire.

At his name, he instinctively turned, and was met with the figure of his brother sitting in his own chair, glass of whatever alcoholic beverage it was resting lightly on his thigh, cradled by his hand. The look on his face told Sherlock all that he needed to know: Mycroft wanted to talk.

“Yes?” Sherlock asked as he rose and settled into the chair opposite his brother's. They both knew that he didn't need to ask, and Mycroft knew that his brother knew what he wanted to talk to him about, but didn't want to face it, not just yet.

But he also new that if he didn't address it now, he would be gone for another four months and wouldn't get another chance as good as the one he had now.

“Brother dear,” he started slowly, trying to ease Sherlock into the upcoming conversation. “There's something that we need to address.” At this point, Sherlock's gaze had dropped, his eyes fixed on some point on the ground by his feet, his hands tangled together. Mycroft hated that he had to be the one to speak to the fifteen year old about the matter, but he hated more the fact that he lived in a world where it had become acceptable to do this to a boy so young and so great.

“Brother, I think you kno-”

“I don't want to talk about it, Mycroft.” Said the boy, almost as a growl. His were eyes still cast down and unblinking, hands still gripping onto eachother.

Sighing, Mycroft shifted his body so he was facing Sherlock more. Having decided before entering the room that he needed to be tough if he was going to get his brother to open up to him, he said, “I know. I do. But I can't let it continue, dear br-”

“It's _wrong_ , Mycroft! They're right, it's disgusting and horrible and WRONG!” By he end of his outburst, Sherlock had cowered back into the cushions and had drawn his knees up into his chest with his arms wrapped around them. He rested his forehead on his forearm, his face shrouded in darkness and shadows.

Mycroft was taken aback, and he knew instantly that something was very, very amiss.

“What is?” He asked, though he already understood what his brother meant. Sherlock must have also realised this, for he didn't move an inch or say a word in reply.

He tried again. “Why do you think that, Sherlock?” Sherlock angled his head so Mycroft could see his face, and gave him a look that could only say one thing, _You know why._

“I will not tell anyone a single word of what we discus tonight, if you so wish to speak with me. You can trust me when I say that, Brother.”

After five minutes of a silence only broken up by the crackling of the fire Sherlock finally began to talk, “It isn't right. They said it isn't and it's not. It's- it's... _dirty_. It isn't natural, the other students say it and they're not incorrect. Sir says it too. He says that the only natural relationships are those of men and women, and he's _right_.”

Shocked to be hearing those kind of words leaving his dear brothers mouth, Mycroft took a long drink from his glass. _He can't really think that. I know him, and he couldn't possibly have such views..._

“Who is this 'Sir'?” He asked, ready to mentally note down the name and make sure whoever told his brother such things would have a very difficult time finding a new job for a very long time. He also decided to pass the name along to Gregory, he would be able to assist him in his newly formed plan.

“Mr. Anderson. RE teacher.” Sherlock stated, the words somewhat muffled by the cushion he had buried his face in.

“Listen to me, Sherlock. That wasn't you, speaking just a moment ago. I know you aren't so close-minded. Sherlock, you can tell me the truth, anything you need to tell me, I'll listen. Ok?” A small nod from the boy of equal size. The boy Mycroft always saw as so confident and who always stood tall with his head held high. But the boy who now was curled up on the chair, eyes glazed over and eyes so sad. He looked so vulnerable and alone.

“I...” A deep breath, eyes falling closed. He burrowed further into his cushion, and exhaled.

“I'm- I...” A shaky gasp, and one more, followed by another. His hands clenching around the pillow in his arms, eyes still closed, like he was trying to block out anything that would remind him where he was.

“I'm gay.” Those two simple words were barely a whisper, tiptoeing through the air and dancing around the edges of existence.

His brother looked visibly relieved that he had finally been able to stop hiding, but at the same time he looked more terrified than Mycroft had ever seen anyone, and that that kind of feeling was being radiated by his own brother... well, that made Mycroft vow to protect him any way he could, no matter the consequences to himself.

He stood and stepped so he was standing infront of his little brother, who's deep breathing told Mycroft that he was desperately trying to hold in tears. He crouched down to his level and pried the pillow away from his frame and tucked it behind his head before drawing his brother into his arms.

He wouldn't openly admit it, but later on in life, he really did miss their relationships as younger boys and men.

“It's alright. It's ok, brother mine” Mycroft muttered to his brother.

After drawing away, he held onto Sherlock's trembling hands, “We don't need to let anyone else know if that's what you would like. But if you think you would prefer if Mummy and Daddy knew, I'll help you” Sherlock nodded again, and the tears he had been holding back slipped free and fell down his rosy cheeks.

Sherlock didn't notice Gregory slipping into the room behind him, Redbeard also entering to stretch out on the rug Sherlock had been lying on.

“I don't want them to know yet.” Sherlock was still speaking in a hushed whisper, his gaze again cast down, this time trained on his and Mycroft's entwined hands. “But how would you be able to help me, you're not gay.” he finished, shaking his head ever so slightly, his voice having risen to less of a whisper, but still not at it's normal volume.

Mycroft turned to look questioningly at Gregory, who, after a moment of deliberation, nodded in agreement. He rose and padded across the room to sit in Mycroft's unoccupied chair.

“Actually, Sherlock, that's not entirely true.” Mycroft said, letting go of Sherlock's left hand to reach out for one of Gregory's. Sherlock's eyes followed the movement, examining the contact between his brother and Gregory.

“Sherlock, it's ok. I'm afraid we are both in the same situation... I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner, brother mine.” he said.

Sherlock didn't know why he was surprised: Gregory _had_ always been wherever Mycroft was, and he supposed he should have been able to work it out. What with the looks they gave eachother and the fact that they shared a room whenever Gregory was staying for the night. And that he sometimes heard... noises... coming from Mycroft's room when Mummy and Daddy weren't at home and Gregory was.

“Nearly six years now. Right Myc?” Gregory said. He tugged on his boyfriend's hand to get him to stand up. Mycroft stood, groaning when he realised his legs had gone stiff.

“Do you expect me to sit on your lap, my love?” he asked, which was apparently exactly what 'Myc' was expected to do. As gracefully as was to be expected of a man who seemed to live off of cake, Mycroft sat with his back flush to Gregory's chest, who's arms came to wrap around his body.

For the rest of the night, the three of them sat in the lounge watching the tv or reading. And Sherlock had never expected to be feeling so... neutral after what had just transpired.

Sherlock was still scared, he didn't know how he would even begin to tell his parents. He was afraid of how they would react, that they would reject him and not treat them as they did now anymore.

But he did know that he had Mycroft and Gregory, that no matter what, his big brother would help him and they would always be in the same position. Despite what the people said, he wouldn't let the rumours get to him. Not anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> My first fic for this fandom, so I have no idea if it's even remotely good.
> 
> Any criticism is welcome so long as it is constructive, and I apologize for any spelling/grammar mistakes, though I have proof-read.


End file.
